Jumper
by QuackPower
Summary: Arthur Conan Doyle's books were no mere novels, they were a biography, Sherlock Holmes's biography. Now an assassin is sent back in time to change things and stop the Napoleon of crime from leaving a legacy. There's a new tenant at 221 Baker Street. God help Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock/OFC
1. Moving

\- Are you ready? – Jerome asked her in his thick french accent.

\- As I'll ever be… - She answered readjusting her nineteenth century dress-. God, this is dreadful. How could they even live with this on…

Jerome just laughed at her partner's expense. She was no tomboy, she was feminine alright, but he guessed this old attires where too much for any modern woman. Too much cloth indeed. And those frames over the hips? What the actual fuck, dude. Talk about uncomfortable…

They were standing a few meters away from the portal that would take her to her next mission. Time traveling, go figure… In 2015 the Assassin Brotherhood was much more than a bunch of well-trained assassins. They were scientists, politicians… A secret society all over the world, making decisions affecting the world, fighting evil. Now evil was winning hands down. It was time for drastic measures. The Napoleon of crime couldn't win. He took a long last look at her, his partner, his friend. Her long chestnut hair done the nineteenth way, shining under the lab's lights. High head, back straight. Her dark caramel eyes everywhere. And that godforsaken purple dress complimenting her nicely. Her apparel was finished by a little purse and a suitcase containing anything but clothes. Her baggage included a lot of cash for her new life's expenses, nineteenth century weaponry and ammunition, and of course her daggers of choice and other sharp-edged flying death warrants. She had aim, he knew it all too well. She would take the books with her too. He only hoped this Arthur Conan Doyle guy was right about the facts when he wrote the infamous detective's biography.

\- It's time-. His musing were interrupted by the polymath in charge.

He saw her leaving his side to approach the archway she had to cross. He had no reason to fear for her, yet he did. They had tested the artifact countless times. First throwing through stones and bones. Then rats. And finally that trained squirrel monkey. They trained it to find assassins and deliver messages to them. When they were sure he would fulfill his task he crossed the archway to 1887. His mission: find an assassin and deliver a letter from the Brotherhood. Then take the assassin back to the root point and cross back to 2015. It was difficult, considering there was no archway on the other side. The monkey had to retrace his own path blindly, hoping to get caught by the wormhole. And you know what? It was a success. And utter and absolute success. The monkey showed up back at the lab a week later, pleased with himself as always when he did his deed. Imagine the surprise when a greyish-cloaked figured crossed behind him seconds later. Callum, an assassin from nineteenth century London was in their lab, looking around trying to wrap his mind around what just happened. The Leadership was informed right away and transactions began. Callum was mistrustful at first, but he ended up determined to help. After some meetings, he went back to his time, promising to return with his own leader. And that's exactly what he did. Alastair proved to be more difficult than Callum. He was an upright man, and he wasn't convinced about allowing an outsider into his time and place. Finally we got to a compromise: our jumper would not interfere in his guild's activities, and would always be looked after by Callum himself. After that, the alley where the wormhole connected was always guarded by Alastair's men in disguise. They would stop anyone who dared to get too close.

\- So this is it-. She said turning to Jerome.

\- Looks like it. You know what to do.

\- Get accommodated. Blend in. Do my job-. She recited.

He nodded his head silently, looking to the archway once more. She took her suitcase and whistled calling the monkey over. The animal perched on her shoulder and after a deep breath she was gone.

One moment I was in the lab, the next I was in a dirty alley. Two dirty young men observed me from the furthest end, Alastair men, no doubt. I nodded my head in their direction, as a way of greeting. They nodded back, watching me as I walked past them with my purse, my suitcase and my monkey. I stopped, looking around. 19th century London was crowded and dirty. But again, I was in the world's largest city at the moment. I made my homework, I had to if I wanted to survive and not arise suspicions while trying to blend in this era. I remembered the directions Callum gave me. Destiny: 221B of Baker Street.

Social differences were clear as the daylight. Nicely dressed, clean people on the one hand; men with hats, canes and pocket watches; women in dresses much like mine, or even more extravagant. On the other hand, poor dirty workmen, with berets and mended clothes; and women with humble dresses and aprons. As I walked down the street some men tipped their hats my way, kids ran up and down the puddly sidewalk, carriages came and went, and vendors yelled their prices. I made my way toward one of them and bought the daily paper, put it under my armpit and kept walking. Soon I was facing what I hoped would be my new home. According to Conan Doyle's books, 221C, the flat downstairs, was never rented. I walked up the doorway stairs and rang the bell. I stood there, waiting patiently, suitcase on the ground. Soon a woman opened the door, she was in her fifties, dressed in black.

\- Mrs. Hudson? My name is Bedelia O'Donoghue. I hear 221C is vacant. Is that the case?

\- Yes, it is.

\- May I come in and take a look? - I asked with a smile.

\- Of course, come on in -. She invited opening the door all the way.

I took my case and walked in, leaving it on the floor again. The foyer and corridor walls were full of little paintings, and the whole place screamed ''fancy'' to me.

\- This way, Miss O'Donoghue -. I followed Miss Hudson down the corridor to a solid looking door on the right, under the stairs. And there it was, upon the threshold… ''221C''. I saw her pull a key ring from her hip and open the door. – This is the living room, it is small compared to the living room in 221B, but that's because the layout is different. I assure you the flats are the same size. Over here is the study room, - she said walking towards an opened door on the right. It was a small room with a desk and bookshelves-. As you can see this flat has its own kitchen area, -she said going back to the living room. There is a backyard. And here are the bedroom and bathroom.

I followed her to the last room of the place, and then we went back to the main room. I stood there looking around. This place felt right. Sure it was a little neglected, but it was homey. With all the money I brought I could improve the place to my liking, I was rich now after all. Thank inflation for that. It was modern, in a way, with radiators and stuff. Although I have to figure out how these worked nowadays. There was some charming furniture I could sand, polish and paint. My mom enjoyed this activities and I partook sometimes in it, learning a trick or two, plus I'd have some free time till things get messy.

\- I know it looks neglected and not refined. But nobody really showed an interest in the place and I barely come in here. I'm sure you're looking for something more tasteful. Plus the tenant upstairs is… a difficult neighbor -. Mrs. Hudson was babbling now, insecure for my lack of response. I smirked at her reference to Mr. Holmes.

\- I'll take it. It's lovely, Mrs. Hudson. And I can take on some crazy neighbor, I assure you. May I make some upgrades?

\- Of course! – She assured me a little shocked-. The backyard is yours too to do as you please.

\- Could I move my things in right away? I just arrived to the city and don't have any other place.

\- Yes, I'll go for the keys-. She hurried for the door.

\- Mrs. Hudson! –I stopped her-. Are you free for luncheon?

\- Well, I don't know if Mr. Holmes will need me. He is in one of his moods.

Yes, I guess he was. According to Conan Doyle's books, Doctor Watson moved out recently, and those were difficult times for Sherlock Holmes. And for Mrs. Hudson, apparently.

\- Mr. Holmes… He is the detective, right? –She nodded her head uncertain-. Can't a smart man such as him take care of himself for a few hours? Plus, I'm new in the city, I could use a nanny more than him-. I taunted her mischievously.

\- You are right -. She said resolutely-. Meet me at the front door in ten minutes?

I nodded my head with a smile and saw her go her way. Suddenly she didn't look so severe to me, more like a lonely woman in need of some quality time with other women. I looked around the flat once more. ''Home''. The word felt right. Maybe too right. I was taking a liking to my new place and my new landlady far too quickly. My whole life I felt a sense of void. No matter what I did, what I accomplished. Something was amiss. I always guided by hunches and first impressions. My reptile brain never steered me in the wrong direction, and now it was telling me the thing I looked for my entire life without knowing was right here. A dangerous sense of belonging made its way over my body.

\- Don't get too comfortable, Bedelia -. I told myself-. You have to go back.

* * *

We were currently in a shop. During lunch I informed Mrs. Hudson that I was lacking clothes and I'd appreciate her advice in the matter. So here I was, being pulled and pushed by the couturier and his aide. I was looking for some simple clothes to pass the days. The less fabric the better, but Mrs. Hudson suggested I should buy some nice dresses just in case I had to attend any event, or a fine man invited me to dinner. God bless her heart… Of course the couturier agreed with her. He asked my price range the moment I crossed the front door, and when I told him price was no problem he was in a mission to sell me the whole place. I wasn't one to brag out, but there was no reason to beat around the bush either. For each dress Mrs. Hudson would pick for me shoes, hats and other compliments. I chose some nightgowns too. Again they insisted I needed some fancy ones, ''just in case''. In case of what? I sleep naked anyway… The couturier finished fixing the last dress on me. Ok, it was beautiful, I could admit that.

\- You look lovely-. It was Mrs. Hudson. I looked to the mirror, right into her eyes. She was sitting in a couch smiling at me. I smiled back and looked back at my own reflection.

\- Dreamy, I'd say -. Added the couturier, proud of his work.

It was a short-sleeved creamy dress, with yellow flowers and green details. French design. Very summery. I wasn't sure I'd actually use it, but I could like it. I didn't know how much time I would be here, after all.

\- I love it -. I conceded-. This will be all, thank you.

\- You are very welcome, Miss. I'll go prepare what you can take already. The rest will be sent to your address in two days -. He left, leaving his aide to help me get out of the dress and put my own clothes on.

\- What time is it, Mrs. Hudson? – I asked her casually.

\- Oh, heavens, it's half past four already! – She exclaimed alarmed.

\- Did you need to be somewhere else? Am I keeping from your duties?

\- No, not really, dear.

\- Then what is the matter, Mrs. Hudson? – I asked her getting finished.

\- Sherlock Holmes is the matter! I won't hear the end of it! He will pester me the moment I cross the door!

\- Do not fret, Mrs. Hudson. We will deal with him. There's another woman in 221 Baker Street now, let's make it count -. I winked, took my purse and went to pay for my purchases.

* * *

She was right. The very moment we crossed the threshold I could hear him. He came out from his flat running at the sound of the front door, with a violin in his hands.

\- The absentee landlady finally rewarded us with her presence -. He exclaimed from the top of the stairs-. Where have you been all day, nanny? Where is my tea?

I smirked at the tone he used for the ''nanny'' word. He was funny. I looked at him, pulling at his violin strings in a random cadence. The first thing I noted was that he needed a bath. Like now. His hair was greasy and looking in every direction, his skin shiny with sweat. His white shirt was more brown than white. And he could use some shaving. He was thirty four, yet he seemed to be in his forties. Drug use, lack of sleep and street fighting would do that to you, I guess.

\- How old are you, Mr. Holmes? – I asked him, my voice loud and clear. Back home I had a lot of cousins, I knew how to deal with petulant children, no matter their age.

\- Who are you? Get out of this house! – He answered with contemp.

\- Is the great Sherlock Holmes – I continued enunciating every word- incapable of making a simple tea? Are you that helpless against a kettle? – I advanced towards the stairs -. As for who I am, my name is Bedelia O'Donoghue, and I'm your neighbor. I rented 221C this morning. Get used to the sight of me, Mr. Holmes, I'm not leaving anytime soon-. I turned to Mrs. Hudson again, her eyes wide like sausages-. Would you help me taking everything to my flat, I'll make tea for two -. Yes, I was letting Sherlock Holmes know that nobody was making tea for him, not on my watch.

\- Of course, dear -. She conceded running down the corridor to my flat with some parcels.

I went right behind her, but I stopped to look at him one more time. He was still there, but silent as the grave. His hands were on his violin, but he wasn't playing it. All his attention was on me. Good. If I could give Mrs. Hudson some peace dealing with him I would. I took a moment to look into his eyes. They were the key to his current mood, they were screaming ''I love cocaine and I hate your flimsy ass'' to her.

\- One more thing, Mr. Holmes. Open your windows and take a bath. I can smell you from here.

\- Who do you think you a-

\- Do it, Mr. Holmes – I repeated myself, this time with more truculence in my voice to match his own wildness. He wasn't going down without a fight, that was for sure. He was used to having the last word. Well, not anymore. - Do it or I'll go up there and do it myself. No idle threats.

With that I left the hall. This was going to be fun.


	2. Curare

Weeks passed by and getting used to the 19th century was easier every day. My adaptation process was fairly quick, and being rich (again thanks to inflation) helped a lot. Mrs. Hudson offered to cook for me since my first day at Baker Street. I told her it was not necessary, she had enough as it was, but since she already cooked for Mr. Holmes and herself, she insisted. Every morning I dressed (sometimes requiring Mrs. Hudson's assistance) and go to a close market to buy some fresh fruit for Bobo (my monkey) and myself. By now most people got used to the sight of Bobo. Kids called me ''the monkey woman'', and I let them pet and feed him. Right now I was baking some sweets. I did it sometimes for Mrs. Hudson as a thank you. The first time I did it, she saved some of the sweets for Mr. Holmes, and served them to him with tea. Apparently, he looked at them with murder in his eyes and told her to take ''the witch's death traps'' with her. She ignored him, as she usually did. Later, when she returned to clean the tray there was nothing left on it, not even the crumbs. You could think he fed the sweets to Gladstone, but that was not the case. For days after my arrival the bulldog barreled his way into my flat, running from the madman upstairs. I was now the proud owner of a squirrel monkey and a bulldog. They were now napping on the couch while I finished the pastries. Looking at them so nonchalant reminded me again of my own carefree attitude. I renewed 221C like I was settling for life. For the living room and kitchen area I mostly kept thing the way they were, I just added little touches and cleaned up. The bedroom and bathroom were another matter entirely… I changed both completely. In the bedroom I added mirrors to the headboard, white furniture and a new wallpaper. I threw in a makeup zone opposite to the bed to complete the room. And the bathroom? It was heavenly now, let me tell you. This is where I really did my homework back in 2015. I am no cleanliness freak, but I wanted to know my options in personal hygiene. So now I had a porcelain enameled cast-iron bathtub that I used every day. I put some drapes around it and a little table with a mirror at the end. A chair, a rug, a big mirror, a new faucet and a cabinet. All in white, as the bedroom. The place wasn't big and the white gave it a nice relaxing feeling. But my favorite part was the backyard. It was case-hardened, yet it fulfilled its purpose. I have a hobby called bonsais, and now I had the place full with young oaks, maples, elms, beeches and birches I was trimming and wiring in an effort to make little wonders in a pot out of them.

Once the pastries were ready I put them on a tray and headed for the common kitchen, but I was stopped by Mrs. Hudson. She was in the hall talking with a beautiful couple.

\- Bedelia, dear! Come meet Dr. Watson and his fiancée-. She said.

I made my way to them, pastries still on my hands. They were lookers, the both of them. She had an elegant beauty, her dark blonde hair put up in a bun, hidden under a headdress. Dr. Watson was a very handsome man too. And he cleaned up nice. The moustache suited him. They cared for their appearance, clearly, unlike their friend upstairs.

\- Dr. Watson, nice to meet you finally -. I smiled his direction. - And you must be Mary -. Mrs. Hudson talked about them with fondness.

\- Will you join us for tea, dear? – Asked me Mrs. Hudson-. Come, let's taste those pastries.

\- I'll join you in a few minutes, ladies-. Dr. Watson said with a last exasperated look to his fiancée. Then up he went, to deal with the detective's moods.

We were drinking our second tea cups when Dr. Watson came into the kitchen. He was up there for quite a long time, and now he looked exhausted. The Sherlock Holmes effect, Mrs. Hudson wore the same tired expression after dealing with him.

\- Well, at least he's not shooting the walls-. He said.

\- My first week here he shot the floor. I have the holes in my ceiling to prove it-. I stated as a matter of fact before sipping my tea.

\- Oh my God! – Mary exclaimed in a whisper. Dr. Watson was sitting next to her regarding me with a livid face-. What did you do?

\- I picked up the bullets and framed them. They preside my living room now, just over the fireplace -. I smiled to myself, picturing the frame with my name's initials made of bullets. Yes, he shot my initials on his floor. I was outside wiring my last oak when I heard the gunshots. They surprised me at first, I ran inside fearing the worst, until I saw a bullet piercing my ceiling. I relaxed then, it was just one of Holmes' shenanigans. I made my way toward the war zone in my living room, just keeping a safe distance. Imaging the surprise on my face when the dots started making sense. ''B.O''. He took his time between shots, and I just waited patiently for them, never taking my eyes from the ceiling. It was almost an intimate moment between the two.

\- He could have hurt you -. Dr. Watson said in a scolding manner.

\- Tell me, Doctor – I put my tea cup on the table-, is Mr. Holmes someone prone to act without thinking?

\- No, he is not, but I wouldn't put my hand in the fire for him when he is in a mood and- he stopped abruptly, clearly not wanting to discuss his friend's issues with a stranger. I could appreciate that kind of loyalty.

\- High on cocaine? I was outside when it started, he knew I was outside, he can see me from his windows.

\- Why do you defend him? – Asked me Mary.

\- I'm not defending him, I'm stating the facts as they were. Let the facts speak for themselves.

\- He would like you if he weren't manic at the moment -. Dr. Watson spoke between sips.

\- Speak of the devil… - Mrs. Hudson muttered in time for us to see Sherlock Holmes walking through the kitchen's door.

\- … and he shall appear! – He finished for her-. There must be a cup of tea for me somewhere in here, nanny. Find it.

The poor woman stood from her chair and went in search of the tableware necessary for Mr. Holmes. He took the opportunity to sit down on her vacant chair next to me.

\- So… -. Watson tried to fill the tense silence-. Mrs. Hudson tells us you sing beautifully-. Ok, now I was turning red. The thing I missed most was my mp3, and sometimes I sang to myself to fill the void of music. I usually did it while cleaning, cooking, gardening… You know, stuff that takes quite the time.

\- Annoyingly, if you ask me -. Mr. Holmes put his two cents while eating one of my poisonous pastries.

\- Nobody asked you -. The doctor scolded him. He would be a good father, he had the experience.

\- Don't let her fool you with her… exquisite treats –he said holding a biscuit between his fingers and looking at it intensely-. She is a harpy-. He finished biting on it.

\- Holmes!

\- Oh, I am a harpy, and you have my name's initials on your flat's floor. How does that feel, Mr. Holmes? Does it burn? – I breathed scathingly into his ear. He was here talking about me like I wasn't in the same room. He hadn't looked at me since the day we met. Even now he didn't have the decency to turn his head towards me.

\- You have a monkey! –He said childishly. Like that was insult. Well, at least he was addressing me now, even if his eyes were still on the table.

\- And you have a goat, and a snake.

\- She stole Gladstone! – He told his friend.

\- I didn't steal him. He decided on his free will he was safer in my flat. Can you blame him? – I asked the doctor.

\- No, I can't. Poor Gladstone could use some holidays.

\- It's settled then! He stays with me. Shall we go, Mary? – I still had to buy underwear and Mary was coming with me. We stood and she said her goodbyes to her fiancé. I waited for her at the door, my eyes wandered to Sherlock Holmes' form. He was there looking to nothing, savoring another biscuit with an intense expression on his face. He was trying to figure out the secret ingredient in my ginger and cinnamon sweets, I could tell.

\- Nutmeg-. I said aloud. Everyone turned their heads towards me not understanding. Except for him. He understood alright, and he was looking into my eyes.

* * *

Here I was again, trying on some bras, and bustiers, and corsets, and tights, and breeches. And I hated every moment. Mainly because it meant I had to take off my clothes and then put them on again, and it was an excruciating process.

\- You have a beautiful body, if I may be so bold -. Mary said helping me fasten the suspenders-. Do you exercise?

\- Yes, I do -. The only sport I practiced was parkour and yoga, for the rest I was a lazy ass. I mean, I am not into running or doing crunches. I just did what I had to do in order to get my job done and survive while at it.

\- Why? It's not common for women to exercise. Some people may even consider it improper, a men's thing.

\- Well, there are bad men, bad men waiting to do bad things to defenseless women. How is it improper for me to be ready for them? I just prefer to be ahead of the curve.

\- Makes sense… You look ravishing in these garments.

\- It's too much. I mean, why bother with something other than plain and boring? It's not like someone's going to see it -. She insisted too in buying some fancy stuff ''just in case'', as Mrs. Hudson did.

-Don't you have any suitors? A love interest of your own?

\- No, nothing.

\- Well, you are a beautiful interesting woman. You'll have suitors in the city soon enough-. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation. If only she knew I was leaving sooner than later…

\- How old are you? Don't you want to marry? To have a family?

\- I'm 25. Family, yes, it sounds good, I like the idea of being a mother. But marriage, I don't think that'll ever happen.

\- Why not?

\- I'm too independent. I make my own decisions, and I need to have my own space. I don't think many men would marry a woman who speaks her mind and wouldn't share their bed every night -. Not in this era, at least.

\- You would do a perfect Mrs. Holmes -. She said hiding her smile.

\- Yes – I laughed heartily at the notion-, yes maybe in the theory. But in my experience theory and practice not always agree with each other.

\- You're still buying this-. She said with finality.

When we returned to 221B later the place was silent as the grave. Strong noises could be heard coming from the kitchen. Pots against pots, like someone was just too angry to give a damn if they broke something. Mary and I looked to each other wondering what the hell was going on. We made our way towards the noises to see Mrs. Hudson tiding up the room with a vengeance.

\- Mrs. Hudson? – I made the woman aware of our presence.

\- Oh, you are here already? – She said startled.

\- What is wrong?

\- Nothing to worry you about. Don't mind me-. She was convincing nobody. Something had angered, clearly-. It's just that Irene Adler woman. She was here before. She walked in here the moment you too went out, anyone would think she was waiting outside the perfect moment to come in and hassle Mr. Holmes. I don't like, she's trouble.

Yes she was. Not for the thieving part, but because of the Moriarty minion one. I could relate with Mrs. Hudson in this. I knew what the Napoleon of crime was capable of, and everyone who aided him was in my black list. But I guessed I'd have to deal with her presence from time to time. She bested Holmes at his own game, and for that he regarded her as ''The Woman''. Not that I cloud blame him, I was usually attracted to brains and wits too.

\- Oh, you had a visit too. A French young man… Mr. Gaillard. He is waiting for you in your flat.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was here. After weeks of silence. In all this time I hadn't heard a word from anyone, nor Alistair's guild, much less from my own companions. I said my goodbyes, thanked Mary again for her help and run to my flat. The door was ajar, light coming out from inside. I pushed the door all the way in and there he was, sitting splay-legged on one of my couches, all properly dressed in 19th century clothes and smoking from a pipe.

\- You know said turning to me-, I kind of like this-. He finished holding up the pipe to me. I couldn't help myself and ran squealing hurling myself to him-. Easy, woman! Your landlady will think us betrothed.

\- What news from the Mark?

\- A day may come when you stop using Lord of the Rings quotes, but it is not this day. Listen, we have reasons to think they know what we are doing, so we may have to close the portal until further notice. They allowed me in to warn you… and to bring something to cheer you up. Go look in your bedroom.

I ran to my room, not really worrying about the news. Trust was fundamental in this line of work. You need to trust the rest of the team knows what they're doing. News come when the time is right. Patience was just as important as the fighting skills. Yes, there was a parcel on my footboard. Yet the first thing to catch my attention was the delicate perfume smell. Odd, I didn't use perfume. The less distinctive traits you have when working undercover, the better. I opened my present quickly to find my tactile mp3 and portable speakers with a lot of spare headphones and solar chargers. I loved this man for a reason. I was about to exit the room to thank him when something red caught my sight. A red rose next to the parcel. I picked it up and went to the living room.

\- Ouch! – I complained when I punctured my finger with the thorns-. My music and a rose.

\- The flower was there when I arrived. Admirers already?

I frowned at the rose in my hand put my bloody finger into my mouth. Immediately my eyes opened wide and my heart started racing. I could recognize that flavor anywhere. Curare.

\- Elia? -. Jerome was regarding me with concern now.

\- Curare-. Was all I managed before feeling my knees gave out under me.

He ran to me, taking me by the waist before I could hit the floor. His other hand went behind my knees, picking me up against his chest.

\- Mrs. Hudson! –I heard him yelling. My body too weakened by the poison to be of any help-. Mrs. Hudson!

I heard two pair of heeled feet made their way to my front door. Mary was still here, judging by her OhmyGods and her John! John!'s.

\- Mrs. Hudson, go get Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. NOW! -. Jerome ordered the landlady while lying me gently onto the rug. I saw him take out a blade from his pocket and cut through my dress and corset, lifting my arms, shoulders and hips to remove the clothes from me-. Don't worry, Elia. I know what to do. We will perform artificial respiration on you until the curare is out of your system-. I knew it was the only way. Keeping the victim breathing artificially, but depending on the dose it could be hours before the poison would relent.

John Watson ran into the flat, getting in doctor mode the very moment he saw me lying on the floor.

\- What happened? – He asked kneeling beside me and taking my pulse.

\- She punctured her finger with a red rose smeared in curare -. I couldn't see him anymore, my body was now almost totally paralyzed and I was facing the other way, where I could see Mrs. Hudson and Mary holding hands. And Mr. Holmes. Holmes… Suddenly it all made sense in my head. Jerome said the bad guys knew about our little plans. She was one of Moriarty's minions. She was here. She came when I left. That smell in my room…

\- Adler -. I breathed out with my last strength.

\- Where was the rose? -. He asked not taking his eyes from me.

\- In her room-. Mr. Holmes disappeared from my view to appear again moments later.

\- Adler? - Watson asked him.

\- Adler indeed-. He answered.

\- She isn't moving her eyes anymore –Jerome told them-. We need to keep her breathing as long as necessary.

\- Bring her upstairs, I have the tools for mechanical ventilation. Burn that flower, Watson.

I felt myself being lifted up and carried around. I started choking then, the air failing me. Everything was a blur, they were rushing now, but I couldn't really look around and see what was happening.

-Put her on the bed, quick. Here, doctor, do your thing – Holmes ordered around and took my face between his hands twisting my neck to look me in the eyes-. I'm going to hold you while the good doctor puts the tube down your throat. Try to relax. We have this-. I could have hug that bastard that very moment. When you are fucking paralyzed it means the world that someone takes the time to treat you as you are something more than a potato sack.

-This will be uncomfortable, but it'll be over soon -. I was now facing upwards into Watsons face.

I could feel Holmes' calloused hands holding my head still and opening my mouth. Let me tell you, a tube down your throat is nasty even when you can't actually gag. It scratched and was painful and alien. But it ended soon, as promised.

\- It's in. The bag, Holmes-. I saw him fasten the bag to the end of the tube and then compress it with both hands. I felt instant relief.

\- It worked, her chest moves-. Now that I could breathe and concentrate on other things I could feel a hand on mine. Jerome's.

\- Is she going to be fine? How long do you have to keep doing this? - Mary.

-Minutes, hours… We can't possibly know. We will take turn. But she will be fine-. Watson assured her-. Go home, love. I anticipate a very long night.

That was the last thing I heard for a few minutes. I still found very unpleasant the fact that I couldn't move at all.

\- Why would she try to murder your new neighbor? – Asked Watson finally.

\- I can't possibly know, I don't really know anything about the woman-. Holmes quipped.

\- Are you talking about Miss Adler or Miss O'Donoghue?

\- Both.

\- Why do you even keep in touch with her? She is bad news, you have an innocent woman lying paralyzed in your bed to prove it.

\- I don't keep in touch. She just shows up. I put an end to our association last year when I left her handcuffed to that bridge for Scotland Yard to find. You should be asking this young man, not me. Tell us, who are you to Miss O'Donoghue? What are you doing here? What were does devices in her bedroom? Did you bring them? Why would someone try to kill her, aside from her impertinence? - The nerve of this man…

\- My name is Jerome, I'm a friend, and I don't think Elia appreciates us talking about her as if she wasn't here. You'll have to wait for your answers.

\- You are boring – Holmes said in a childish manner.

\- I'm not here to amuse you, Mr. Holmes.

-Why are you here?

\- To visit a friend.

\- Why would you befriend the likes of her? - I was so punching him when I could…

\- She bakes like heaven- Jerome quipped with mirth.

And that was it. The conversation was apparently over again. I could hear the air being compressed into the bag every few seconds, and the seconds ticking by in a near clock.

\- I can concede you that-. Holmes broke the silence answering Jerome's last statement, and I could see Watson's lips twitching upwards. When this whole ordeal passed I'd have to bake some 'thank you treats', apparently.


	3. Living with a weirdo

**So long people! XD Don't worry, this is getting fast now, I have another chapter almost finished, but for now I though you could get to know our main character better. I have to flee now, but see you soon. Hugs. And don't forget to review!**

 **PS: I'm also reviewing myself for typos, remember I don't use english much, be gentle with me, I'm trying :_(  
PS2: I'm uploading pictures of 221C and Elia's dresses and stuff for popular request. Check my profile for it.**

* * *

Days passed since the Adler incident, and my life was back to normal, or as normal as it could be. They saved my life. The three of them took turns to force the air I couldn't breathe by myself into my lungs. They also covered me with blankets so I wouldn't get cold (and for modesty's sake too…) and closed my eyes so they wouldn't dry up. I don't need to say that the very moment I started to breathe alone Mr. Holmes attacked me with questions, but Dr. Watson ordered him to leave me be for a few days. The experience left me mentally exhausted and physically jammed. The doctor advised me to drink lemon juice with honey for the throat ache and some stretching for the sore muscles. That's what I did for days, and to my utter surprise I never heard from the man upstairs, he must be busy gutting some poor animal for researching purposes.

Two days ago Mrs. Hudson received a letter from her family. A relative of hers was sick and the doctors didn't know if he'd survive, so they requested her presence in the countryside. She was reluctant to leave Baker Street and her duties since her presence there wouldn't change anything, but I told her I would take care of 221. She left early in the morning, so I raised sooner to dust the place and mop the floors. Then I took out Gladstone and Bobo after leaving some tea and pastries in Mr. Holmes' door, and now I was cooking lunch. Pork sausages with a side salad of mashed spicy potatoes, chopped green onions and minced crab. I love eating, and so I love cooking. I put his dish, glass and jar in a new tray and went to his door. I was wearing my hair up in a bun, a light dotted dress and walking barefoot. It was a warm summer day and I wasn't willing to be a proper suffering lady. I balanced the tray in one hand and knocked with the other one.

\- Come in! – I heard his muffled voice-.

\- Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Where should I put your lunch? – I asked looking around looking for a tidy spot for the tray.

For a few moments he just stayed there looking at me like he saw a ghost. Pipe in his mouth.

\- Mr. Holmes? – I insisted impatiently.

\- Right! Over there is fine… - he motioned towards a coffee table.

He came out from his stupor blinking and taking a few little puffs of his tobacco. I tiptoed over clothes and… just things all over the floor. Now, I could lecture him, but it wasn't my place to do such a thing. This was his apartment after all. He could have it however he liked it, and it would just be rude on my part to step onto his things. Plus, he was adamant that nobody touched his stuff, and that I could understand and respect. I had a very strong sense of private property. Also I tended towards the organized messes too. Although mine weren't this messy. There is something about neat places that sets me off. It comes across as fake. When you actually live-in there must be always something out of place, right? Or maybe I was just making excuses for myself. I had made my way to the spot where he wanted his lunch and was about to leave it there when he made me stop dead in my tracks.

\- Wait! Here is better- he gestured right beside him.

I exhaled trying to control the urge to slap him and made my way over to him. I tiptoed again. Two little steps to the right, a long one to the front, around a chair and another one to the front over some bubbly experiment he had on the floor. His eyes were still on me, lips on his pipe, and he looked like he was thinking very hard, but then again, he always looked like he was thinking very hard.

\- Where's Mrs. Hudson? – He asked me.

\- She's visiting her relatives for a while, she told you yesterday – I reminded him bored. For a highly intelligent man it was uncanny the number of times you had to remind him of this little day to day things.

\- She did? – He was looking right through me, like trying to envision Mrs. Hudson delivering the message while biting his pipe.

\- Yes, Mr. Homes, she d-

\- What's this? –he interrupted going for the jar on the tray.

It happened so fast… One moment I was thinking I couldn't wait to get out of his presence and the next everything revolved around the crystal glass hurtling towards the floor. The back of his hand had pushed the glass in his way towards the jar making it fly. You know when something drops from your hands and time seems to stop for a moment? That's what happened here. He interrupting me, his hand reaching for the jar, the glass dropping and my left hand balancing the tray while the right one shot out to catch the glass midair… It all happened in the span of a single second.

I put the glass back on its place and handed the tray to Mr. Holmes with more force than necessary making its content dance dangerously onto it.

\- Leave the tray outside when you're finished, Mr. Holmes.

I walked out of there, not giving a damn about what I could step onto this time, and banging the door.

* * *

 _BAM!_

I was wiring a little oak in my backyard. It was a nice sunny day. Not warm enough to make activities outside a sweaty nightmare. I could hear Gladstone and Bobo roughhousing inside through the back opened door. I always left it that way to give them and myself more autonomy. They could go outside whenever they wanted, no need to ask. The front door was opened many times a day too. I told Mrs. Hudson she could come in at will many many times. As many times as she had still knocked politely before sticking her nose. But the man upstairs didn't care about polite. The sudden silence surrounding the previous barking and screeching didn't draw my attention at first.

 _BAM!_

Gladstone barreled into the backyard like wildfire with Bobo on his back. I followed the mad race with my eyes, turning my head from the swinging door to the farthest wall where the dog was scratching and whining for a way out. I returned my head to the door, seeing no other than Sherlock Holmes approaching the still swinging door. He stopped it from hitting the frame again with a hand and stayed under the threshold.

\- I think he doesn't like me.

\- He is terrified of you.

\- The door was open - he gestured inside.

\- Yes, it was.

My cutting answers were making him somewhat uncomfortable. I mean, as uncomfortable as he was able to feel considering how very inappropriate he was at every time. But if you really observed he had mannerism like any other person. And when he had doubts about how he should act next he would always flee forward, but not without playing with his pipe in front of his lips first.

\- Bonsais, right? – He asked walking down the two steps and looking around- An unusual pastime…

\- You would know…

\- You have no idea.

He was smirking down at me. His body a few inches away from where I was still sitting and facing the oak in a pot. But the lopsided curve of his lips wasn't the center of my attention. No, that could be faked. He knew how to fake an emotion when he needed it, I had seen it happen. So my focus was on his eyes and the mirth inside them. Oh, he thought himself so clever and interesting… Which he was, of course, but it was funny nonetheless. It was always funny how they thought of themselves as withholders of so many secrets. Secrets the agent in front of them usually knew all about. Starting with their pant size and following suit by their bank account number. She had always wanted to smile back at them in that moment. A smile that would plant the seed of self-doubt in their petulant faces. But she couldn't allow herself that personal weakness, so she would just stare back with a practiced and unsuspected face. Of course Sherlock Holmes was a mission like no other. Back in her days it was easy enough for The Brotherhood to gather intel about anyone. There are always snitches and snoopers for that. But how do you spy on someone who lived two-hundred years before your time? Any documentation work you can do falls short, and when the guy in question is sort of a hero, chances are that some of the stuff you read about him is either made up or exaggerated. That was the main reason why it was so important for her to be there time before the final act.

\- I was talking to Watson on the telephone –he started-. He and Mary want to have dinner at the Royale.

In January of that same year Graham Bell's patent for an electromagnetic telephone had been granted, and Sherlock Holmes was one of the very first people to have one. Something about Bell owing him a favor. Mrs. Hudson had told her about it at some point.

\- Well then, Mr. Holmes, have fun and give them my regards.

\- You can regard them yourself, you're invited.

That I wasn't expecting.

\- I don't th-

\- I don't care what you think, Miss O'Donoghue. If I show up alone they will blame it on me, accuse me of not delivering the message or worse. You're coming. Eight o'clock. Front door.

* * *

 _DING!_

I had been waiting at the front of the shop where I bought all my clothes for a while now. If I didn't make it back to Baker Street soon I wouldn't be ready in time for dinner, so I made the ding ring. The couturier showed up behind a curtain two seconds later.

\- I'm terribly sorry Miss! How can I be of help?

\- I was hoping you remembered the dresses I bought here. You see, I'm having dinner this evening at the Café Royale, and I could use some advice in how to dress.

\- Oh, yes, I remember, those were nice dresses... Let me see… What's the occasion? How many are you? Someone you want to impress?

\- Just dinner with friends. We'll be four, two and two, but nobody to impress really.

\- I see... The blue one! The one with the _''scissor cut''_ – he quoted me funny. That's how I called it, because yeah, I'm no clothes pro, I don't know how to call those things. And in my own defense, it looks like a scissor.

\- Thank you – I was ready to leave when he stopped me in my tracks.

\- Wait! –He went back inside and returned with a rectangular leather box-. Here, for the evening, compliments of the house.

When he opened it I was dumbstruk. Inside was a peacock like hair comb. The body of the peacock was enameled in green and blue, with a pearly shine. The wings and tail were golden, and each feather was full of brilliants, with sapphires as centerpieces of that beautiful eyes that adorned the animal's plumage.

\- Good Lord! I can't accept it, it's too much!

\- Nothing compared to what you have spent previously.

Yeah, when I told him money wasn't an issue he went full game on me. She would have been fine with two simple dresses, because she wasn't one to spend too much on clothes, shoes or jewelry in the first place, but Mrs. Hudson and Mary were there to remind her that she could need the fancy side at some point, so yeah, she had spent a small fortune in one hit.

\- Still, I can't take it just for free-

\- One picture –he cut her.

\- Excuse me?

\- Use it tonight, with the dress. Have a wonderful evening and take one picture for our customer's wall. That will be your payment.

He had gestured to a wall on her left side. She had seen it before, but she never paid it mind. It was full of framed pictures of fancy ladies dressed in fancy clothes. 19th century advertisement, I supposed. Wealthy women would come in, see the miracles he had worked on others and pay for the same.

\- One picture – I conceded seeing the resolution in his face. I had no time for more arguing.

* * *

I was looking at the back of my head angling a make-up mirror for the tenth time, and touching gently the _''compliment of the house''_ nested there to check that it wouldn't fall off for the twentieth time. She was ready. She had been ready and stalling for a while now. Not for any particular reason. By now she was used to Holmes, seeing John and Mary again would be nice, and she had been in many fancy places before. Her initiation as an assassin hadn't been the usual. As a rule, her kind were street dogs and orphans raised under the wing of The Brotherhood. But she had family, a dysfunctional family, but family nonetheless. She was raised in her own home, and her parents had worked to provide her with an education. So she went to uni and completed her law degree. While doing so she developed an interest in international law and a professor took her under his wing. She got admitted into a very private very exclusive law school, where she got a professional master, and that's how she got in contact with The Brotherhood, by the hand of professors, ambassadors and ministers. She did all that by the age of twenty. She did it although she didn't want to. She did it because she was smart, and blessed, and she couldn't let those talents go to waste. That's what her parents always told her. So she did it. But the truth is she was rather depressed. Their dreams were drowning her, because they weren't her dreams. If someone would have asked her by then what she wanted her answer would have been a pregnant silence. That's how deep she was in what she _had_ to do. Her parents had lived their own ambitions through her. But she didn't resent them. You can't resent the dead, it's not healthy. They died. Someone killed them. And Jerome shattered her window and took her hand. And she run with him, she tasted the wind and the cold of the night on her face while the adrenaline affected her body helping her run faster than ever, and jump higher than ever, and she knew that's what she wanted, night after night. They were dead. Nothing held her back anymore. The leash was broken and she was going to run off the steam.

Neighing horses outside brought me out my stupor. I saw it was two minutes to eight, so I took my handbag and run to the front door. I got outside swiftly and was maneuvering with the tail of my dress when I heard him.

\- Right on time Miss O'Donog-hue.

I peeled my eyes off the dress and my feet to look at him. It sounded like he had choked on my name. He was there, down the front stairs waiting next to a carriage.

\- You alright Mister Holmes?

\- Great! Just great! Shall we?

He opened the door of the carriage for me and offered me a gloved hand to climb up that I took in my own gloved one. We weren't there yet and he was acting weird already...


	4. No choice but to dance

**So... How about some Sherlock POV in next chapter? Would you like that?**

* * *

Once inside the carriage she finally could have a look at him. It wasn't bad, just weird. She was used to see him in white shirts with unbuttoned sleeves, suspenders up holding worn out black trousers, and his each-passing-day-longer-hair either shaggy or pointing to all directions. That disheveled Sherlock Holmes wasn't the man in front of her. The man in front of her was in a three-piece suit; trousers held up not only by suspenders but a girdle too, all very well concealed under an embroidered vest. His black jacket had a shiny touch to it, as his trousers did, with the exception of the velvet filling on the big lapels. His attire was finished by a stripped black and white scarf around his neck, a freshly shaved face and a side parting hairdo. Overall this was the cleanest she had ever seen him. She had even taken a whiff of perfume on him when he had helped her into the carriage.

Her own attire consisted of a long dress with a little tail. It was light blue of sheer fabric underneath. Over it, there was another piece of cloth, like a long waistcoat that fell over her hips, with lapels that gave it the form of scissors as she had said. That second piece was a darker blue, sparkling and with golden needlework details, and it adjusted to her body highlighting her feminine shape. It was short-sleeved, which made it easier for her to work with her long leather white gloves. The ensemble was finished by the golden hair comb and a simple set of golden earrings. She didn't bother with make-up really, she only applied some powder to even out her skin tone and curled her eyelashes. In Victorian days the natural look was the fashionable thing. Dark lipstick or blushes came across as vulgar, a harlot's thing. Most women still used make-up but it was very light, and they pinched their cheeks and lips instead of applying any products.

"Do you mind?'' – He asked me taking his pipe out from the jacket's pocket.

"Not at all'' – I said.

He produced a match from another pocket and lighted it up swiftly by rubbing it over the wooden frame of the window. He took a few rapid puffs of his tobacco as he usually did to allow the oxygen to do its job. Then he crossed his legs and propped his right elbow on the edge of the window.

"You know The Royale?''

"Can't say I do.''

He was making small conversation now, but his eyes wouldn't stay on me more than a second each time.

"How so?''

"First time to London.''

"Oh, true. From Glasgow, right?''

"Correct.''

Of course he went through the papers I had to sign in order to rent Mrs. Hudson's apartment to find out whatever he could about the new _nuisance downstairs_. That and he probably heard me telling my fake story to the landlady. He never sat and have tea with us, but he would leave his flat from time to time, come and go, and I made sure to talk in those moments. He was famous for being terribly aware of his surroundings, his senses able to perceive even the most little detail and store it in his mind for later on. So whenever he crossed the corridor seemingly absent I would make sure he heard a new detail of my charade, give him a puzzle to put together. One that probably wouldn't win me his sanction. He wasn't known for being friendly, so why waste time trying to be his friend. I just needed to be close, and learn about his progress in the whole Moriarty thing. So whenever he would leave the flat with the aspect of a complete different person to attend Moriarty's lessons, I made my way upstairs to take a look at his board. He was close, he was so close… But he hadn't identify the lesser minions of the operation yet, and you can't get to the king without crossing the pawns. But soon enough he would start taking down gang after gang, making his way up to the Reichenbach Falls. Until then to him I would only be the spoiled brat of a late wealthy shipyard tycoon that was living the life in the City out of her parents' inheritance. Luckily, I would be that even after, when I'd be living the life in another country, maybe France. Or so they would think.

The rest of the way was in silence, and not a comfortable one, since I was feeling quite bitter all of the sudden. I knew what my job involved, I always knew. And yet sometimes the weight of it all took its toll on me. I wasn't entitled to any kind of recognition for my achievements as an Assassin, and that was fine. But playing the stupid girl part in the undercover side… Don't get me wrong. I chose that part. Being underestimated is a blessing, for that way they never see the blow coming. And yet I couldn't stop thinking that as smart and _blessed_ as I was, nobody would ever know. Nobody would know of my accomplishments. Except for my own comrades, of course, but then again, I wasn't very popular amongst them either, not in a positive way at least… _Loose cannon._

The carriage came to a stop right in front of a big building. With a first look you could see the similarity with the formal classical temple architecture of the Ancient Greeks and Romans. Superimposed portico, pillars at the entrance, total symmetry… The Palladian architecture one could see grow throughout all of Britain since the early 18th century. A sing of power and elegance for the Empire. Mr. Holmes got out from the carriage swiftly and offered me his hand once again. Outside I took advantage of my position closer to the coachman to pay for the ride with a double sovereign I had ready in my hand and told him to keep the change. His eyes widened when he saw what I put on his hand and he wasted no time herding the horses to make a hasty retreat before I could regret or the gentleman who accompanied me could protest. Man I was so glad I took lessons about 19th century currency before my travel… Prior to decimalization the pound was divided into twenty shillings and each shilling was divided into twelve pennies, which sounds crazy at first, but actually it makes sense when explained. Having a pound divided into 240 equal parts, instead of 100, does mean it can be exactly divided from halves to one-hundred-and-twentieths; whereas the decimal system only allows precise division from halves to fiftieths. Now, getting this into your head was merely a matter of practice. The problem comes when you are ready to practice, the person who is teaching you asks you for a penny and then you look down onto the table thinking _''well, that's easy''_ only to discover there are no pennies there, only a golden coin called _farthing_. Then, he explains to you that a farthing is actually one quarter of a penny, so you give him four. Then you have to learn about _crowns_ (five shillings), _half_ - _crowns_ (two shillings and sixpence, or an eight of a pound), _sovereings_ (a pound), and _guineas_ (a coin that ceased to circulate, but which name was still used to say twenty-one shillings, or a pound and one shilling). But the moment when I most thanked those lessons were my visits to the market. There, people of all social status mingled, and thus, you heard a lot of slang. If it weren't for those lessons I don't know what I'd had do the first time someone asked me _two_ _bob_ or a _thrupp'ny_ _bit._ It really didn't take me time to absorb all the information, because it never does (blessed, remember?), but I wasn't expecting for ''Victorian currency 101'' to be one of the central pieces of my preparation.

"You shouldn't have done that'' – Holmes told me with a serious face.

"And why is that?'' – I asked grabbing distractedly the tail of my dress.

"It's customary for men to pay for any expenses when in the company of a lady.''

" _Customary_ does not necessarily mean _right_ , Mr. Holmes. Surely a clever man as yourself can see the difference. Now, shall we?''

Of course I also had attended _Victorian customs 101_ and _How to behave like a proper Victorian lady,_ and yet, I was told to _rebel_ from time to time since late 19th century was an awakening moment for feminism in UK and women's suffrage was to be approved before long. Of course by _rebel_ they meant _pay_ or _have an opinion_. What a joke… But then again, she wasn't one to talk. She spent her youth obtaining academic title after academic title just to make her parents happy. Lame…

They were greeted by the staff the very moment they crossed the door.

"Mr. Holmes! And Mrs. O'Donoghue, I presume'' – he addressed her-. "Come this way.''

Mr. Holmes extended his arm in a gentlemanly gesture telling her to follow first, and she did. As she walked around the place towards their table she looked around slyly. The Royale was obviously the place of the fancy ones, whether they were really fancy or they just pretended to be. First table to the left: seven business men toasting to a deal that would make them even richer. Second table to the right: a young man introducing his fiancé to his parents for the first time. She was dressed in fine clothes and jewelry, obviously bought by the guy for the occasion, since she was from a low social class. The father was smiling goofily, oblivious to the young couple's deceit, but the mother was onto their asses, judging by her passive-aggressive attitude towards the bride to be. Third table to the left: an old happy couple celebrating their millionth anniversary. Fourth table to the right: an old unhappy couple also _celebrating_. Fifth table to the left: the smiling faces of John and Mary.

She could count with the fingers of one hand the number of times she had met them, but every one of those times they always seemed to amaze her. The complicity between the two was so thick you could feel it in the air, even when they were yards apart from each other and not interacting at all. Bedelia was a misbeliever in the matters of the heart. Of course she believed in falling in love, it was a hormonal question. What she didn't believe was the romanticism people added to it, the part where the pituitary wasn't doing the job. She was convinced that once the hormones subdued the only thing keeping couples together was the fear to loneliness. When she looked around she didn't see happy couples, she only saw resigned people. But there were exceptions, like John and Mary, that made her question her own beliefs. But whenever that happened she just shook it of her shoulders. It didn't matter if she was right or wrong, she would never get to experience it first hand, because the human closeness that constituted a blessing for the majority was one of her worst nightmares.

"Oh, Elia, look at you!'' –Mary took her arms affectionately while Watson greeted Holmes in a manly way- "Let me see…'' - Mary continued admiring her outfit- "Is that hair brooch new?''

"Yes, a gift from Mr. Gaunt.''

"A gift? Well, maybe I should start spending more money in that store.''

"Like you need an excuse…'' - Watson interrupted her playfully- "Happy that you decided to join us''- he addressed me.

"Of course, thank you for the invitation.''

"Yes, well, I'm actually amazed that you received it, it often happens that my messages go missing in the hands of my best friend.''

"Then why do you insist on leaving them to me'' –Holmes grumbled under his breath.

"Because faith is the last thing you lose, Holmes. Shall we?''

At Watson's invitation to sit at the table Mr. Holmes promptly pulled out my chair. I accepted the gesture no problem. He knew how to behave like a proper gentleman, I knew how to behave like a proper lady, and this was the place for it. He pushed the chair in while I was sitting and then walked around the already sitting Mary to his own chair next to Watson, whose eyes never left his detective friend. The man of the mustache had a really deep daddy complex when it came to Mr. Holmes. Always watching his every move, ready to scold him and proceed with some damage control.

"So, tell us, Elia, how have you been?'' – The good doctor asked me while filling my glass of wine and then Holmes'. He didn't mention the incident with Adler's little welcome gift, but there was no need. The pointed look he gave to the three of us while asking was enough to know what he was referring to. A look Sherlock Holmes feigned to ignore terribly bad, and most likely on purpose. She had the theory that Mr. Holmes overacted in some situations in favor of those around him. Like now, where he was _clearly_ pretending not hearing what Watson was saying to let him know he was not interested in talking about it.

"I've been fine, thank you.''

"Any soreness?''- He insisted passing me the menu.

"Well, yes, but nothing to worry about. I already worked the kinks out.''

''Glad to hear it''- smiled Mary from behind her own menu, to which John agreed with a soft hum.

We all went back to the menus in our hands. Well, not all. Mr. Holmes hadn't even looked at it, clearly resolute in his decision. He probably knew the contents of the menu from top to bottom. As did John and Mary, but these two were kind enough to re-read it to give their new friend the time to do the same leisurely. All the dishes were named and described both in english and french. She suspected the cooks were from France, going by the accent she picked up from the waiters and the obvious clues of the general place.

" _Bonsoire_ , my name is Alain, and I'll be your waiter for the night. Are you ready to order?''- Interrupted a young waiter with a notebook in his hands.

" _Foie gras_ with mustard seeds and green onions in duck juice''- ordered Mr. Holmes going immediately back to smoking.

"The lobster bisque and salmon terrine for us, please'' – Watson smiled ruefully to the waiter for his companion's bad manners.

"And for the lady?''- He addressed me.

" _Oeufs au plat Meyerbeer, s'il vous plaît''_ – I smiled at him handing over my menu.

" _Tout de suite, Mademoiselle''_ – he smiled back at me.

"So, you speak French.'' – Watson asked and answered his own question.

"Yes, I do.''

"How did you learn?'' – Asked me a curious Mary. Squeeze the language of love into a conversation with a victorian lady and watch her melt. Like bees to a honeypot.

"Your friend Jerome?'' – Sherlock Holmes had been quiet right up to that moment, and the inquisitive tone of his question wasn't lost to her, not even behind his casual removal of the pipe's ashes onto the table's ashtray.

"I used to spend the summers in the French countryside. We are childhood friends.''- I lied through my teeth. Keep it short and simple and everyone will buy it, as they did… - "So… what's the story behind The Royale?'' – I asked. Watson had also picked up on Mr. Holmes tone and his mustache was twitching dangerously. Time to deflect.

"What makes you think there's a story behind the place?'' – Watson asked me before sipping from his wine.

In that moment Alain returned with our dinner balanced in his arms. _Bon appétite_ , he said before leaving our table.

"Well, from the outside the architecture of the building is similar to many other buildings in Europe. The Palladian style is strong. Reminiscent of Greece and Rome. But the interior is pretty much french. Not the french you see mostly outside France, you know, very Rococo and for the tourist eye. No, this is still grand, but cleaner. Updated. It's been reformed to match the style of the Second French Empire, with all the paired columns and wrought iron cresting.'' – I ended putting some liver and eggs in my mouth.

"Established by French people and for the French people''- Mr. Holmes chimed in drawing back Mary and John's attention, who had been looking around like taking in their surroundings for the first time.

"Exactly.''- I nodded.

When I looked him in the eye he seemed to be studying me for a second, and whatever he was looking for I didn't know if he found, because he went back to his food, with that sniffy face he did sometimes. We all ate in a comfortable silence after that. Until Mr. Holmes decided to break that silence again in a too sudden way. It took the three of them clearly by surprise, and poor Mary even dropped the spoon into her bisque splashing the table.

"Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, a French wine merchant. He fled France due to bankruptcy. He arrived in Britain with his wife, Célestine, and five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management and that of his wife… well"- he finished waving his hands around.

Then he emptied his glass of wine in one go. Mary listened while trying to clean the mess in the table with her napkin and then kept on working on the cleaning, while Bedelia finished her dinner. John Watson on the other hand was the living picture of bafflement. He leaned with one arm over the table scoffing at his friend.

"What?"

"How many times we've had dinner here, Holmes?"

"Many?"

"Yes, many." – Watson leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. My, he was affronted.

"So?"

"So you never mentioned there was an actual story to this place."

They continued to banter like a married couple for what felt like forever, attracting stares from the closer tables. Bedelia could only imagine what they were thinking. With Watson's defensive body language and Holmes looking exasperated and feeling clearly obligated to explain himself. It was the kind of scene you expected to see when a woman finds out his husband's been flirting with another.

"Is this common behavior?" – She asked Mary, the both of them turning their heads side to side enjoying the match.

"It is."

"Don't you ever get jealous?"

"I used to. Now I think it's funny.''

Bedelia didn't expect the truth behind Mary's words. In her eyes she could see she wasn't joking, not entirely. At some point she didn't like the friendship between those two, but with time she had grown to accept it and then even enjoy it.

"You're unbelievable!" – Watson reproached just as the orchestra started playing music in the next room.

"Music!" – Exclaimed Holmes standing up and throwing his napkin on the table-. We have no choice but to dance!"

And then she thought she'd have a panic attack.


	5. Challenge accepted

**Hey guys! First of all thank you so much for keeping up with the story, your interest in it gives me life, so thank you thank you and thank you to everyone that has taken the time to follow and fav. And especially to those that were kind enough to review so far: Nikkitosa, Fey Croix, SelasVictoria, Aim107, Wolfdogpack, Nimwen and Bri. A story is nothing without its readers :)**

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Sherlock Holmes didn't give his neighbor a chance to refuse him, he simply took her wrist unceremoniously and dragged her to the dance floor, like a mother dragging her kid home when he wasn't done playing with his friends. John Watson sat there watching the scene unfold before his eyes with his mouth agape. He was more than ready to get up and punch his best friend in front of the whole restaurant, the same way he was conducting himself in such an improper way in front of the whole restaurant. Only Mary's handgrip around his forearm stopped him.

"Let her deal with him"- Mary told her fiancé.

She saw it. Everybody saw it. But they were practically flat mates now, so it was only logical to let them deal with each other and set their own boundaries. Sherlock was a difficult man. Despite his awareness of social customs he was prone to make scenes, act on apparent impulses and be plainly rude - whether that behavior was for lack of caring on his part or an act necessary for one of his big schemes was for time to reveal-. But Elia struck her as a difficult woman too, at least difficult for their times, and strong enough to put a stop to Sherlock's wiles if she felt like it. So she took John's hand in hers and asked for dessert, ready to have a moment with the man she loved while her new friend had her own moment with the detective.

So, as Mary decided she felt like ending the night with strawberry macaroons, Sherlock Holmes loosened his grip around Bedelia's wrist just to take her left hand firmly in his right hand, and maneuver his other arm around her and onto her middle back. She was sweating. Not in an obvious way, but obvious enough for the detective to see and feel. He saw her eyes widening, back at the table, the very moment he snatched her up. He could swear, if she'd had and extra second to react, she would have leaped off the chair like her dress was catching fire. But she didn't.

 _Because she didn't have the time or because she was used to reign in her emotions?_

She just allowed him to drag her –quite stiffly- all the way to the dance floor. And there, when he corrected their position, holding her hand in his for a ballroom dance, he saw her blink, square her shoulders and compose herself. He could imagine her denying everything if he were to ask her about her obvious discomfort just seconds ago. Hell, he found it difficult to remember the tension in her muscles given her actual and sudden composure. But there was something in her eyes before she composed herself, something akin to doubt.

 _A question._

And something very different once she met his eyes ready to dance.

 _A challenge._

No one was meant to notice any of those things, but he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was nothing but observant to a fault. He took the first step and she followed him swiftly, as expected from a well off young woman. That's what they do: they dress fancy, learn how to dance, play an instrument or two, maybe sing, spend their time painting, gardening, sewing, reading romantic novels… and just wait for a wealthy man to put a ring on them. But no ring on this one.

"Single, right?" – He asked her as they swayed back and forth, left and right.

"Yes"- she answered clearly tired of answering the same question again and again.

"I don't judge" – he clarified-. "I myself suffer social disapproval for being a bachelor."

"And how do you deal with it, Mister Holmes?" – She asked going back into his arms after a gracious twirl.

"I don't" –he smirked.

He didn't mean to compare their situations. He was lucky to be born a man, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to pursue his career as a detective. It was scary, really. Many of his accomplishments pivoted on seer luck from the moment of his conception. She was lucky too. Except extremely rare cases, women could not obtain a divorce, and if they ran away from intolerable marriages the police could capture them and return them to their husbands, who could have them imprisoned. Wealthy widows and orphans were an exception to the rule. If she were to marry, all her inheritance and earnings would belong to her husband, not to talk about her right to prosecute offenses and felonies, _and_ the access to her body. Life gave her a chance to be free and she'd be a fool to throw it away for the illusion of romanticism.

"Well, don't you worry, Mister Holmes. You won't be receiving another wedding invitation any time soon" –she joked.

"You should expect one" –he said making her frown in confusion-. "They don't have that many friends, and they're already taking a liking to you" – he clarified nodding over her shoulder to John and Mary, who were now dancing a few feet away from them.

"That'd be flattering, and awkward."

"Then we shall be awkward together. Now, I think the good doctor intends to do us part" – he informed her of the obvious intention John and Mary had of switching partners.

He didn't expect her to get tense at that bit of information. But despite her –again- quick recovery he saw a flash of dread in her features. And, if that wasn't enough, the sudden surge on her body temperature and the way she seemed to cling harder to him spoke volumes.

"I feel flattered, Miss O'Donoghue, but I must say I think of myself as married to my job."

"I don't know if I should congratulate that job of yours or give it my condolences. I'll let you know when I decide."

"I'll let you know when I decide too."

"About what?" – She asked not catching his meaning.

"About you."- The detective fixed his gaze on hers.

They stopped dancing, but they didn't let go. They just stood there. Locked in each other's eyes. Locked in each other's arms.

When he dragged her into the ballroom a few minutes ago, right after he let go of her wrist and embraced her waist in the most improper of manners he saw something in her eyes.

 _A challenge._

And now he was replying silently with his own dark orbs.

 _Challenge accepted._

The silent match was interrupted by John Watson clearing his throat with intent.

"I think this belongs to the lady" – the doctor offered Elia her white leather gloves, the ones that should have never been left behind.

"Thank you!"- She took them immediately from him and slid her hands and arms inside the thick but soft fabric.

"May I?" – He asked offering his hand for Elia to take.

Sherlock Holmes offered his own hand to Mary.

"Mary, dear, did John ever tell you who taught him how to dance?"

Elia and John swayed slowly, watching the other two as they danced away from them.

"Who taught you how to dance?" – Elia broke the ice.

Watson made a sound that resembled a scoff and a laugh.

"He did."

"Well, he did a wonderful job, considering…"

"Considering what?"

"Oh, you know what they say. He who knows, doesn't know how to teach."

"I don't think that statement applies in this particular case. He tends to feel the imperious need to show off, so he has developed the skill to explain his deductive methods for the common mind. Although I won't deny he gets carried away sometimes, losing students in the process."

"Oh, then I can't wait to be patronized." – She said ironically.

They kept on dancing to the music of the violins and cellos amidst the other couples in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

"Don't do it." –Elia spoke suddenly, breaking said silence again.

"I beg your pardon?"- Watson asked confused.

"You are about to apologize for Holmes' behavior. It's written all over your face. It's also the reason why you interrupted our dancing, is it not?"

"Guilty" – he smiled sheepishly.

"I appreciate your concern, Doctor Watson, but if he ever crosses the red line I will punch him myself. Don't take that pleasure away from me." –She joked.

"I won't"- he conceded-. "Mary stopped me from tackling him when he snatched you up from the table. She thinks you're more than capable of handling him. I see why now."

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Elia put the receipt of the pictures they took before leaving the restaurant inside her purse while John and Mary stepped into the carriage after her and Holmes. After dancing for a while they stopped for some drinks. Mary, in true woman's fashion, asked for a cocktail called _cobbler_ or _sherry-cobbler_ , while the men decided on brandy and Elia herself surprised them asking for a _''_ _Craig. Neat. No ice."_ When she put her lips on the rim of her glass of whisky the other three observed her like hawks, probably expecting her to choke on its contents, like she was bluffing. But she didn't. The first time she ever tasted whisky, years ago, she almost puked, but then again, it was some cheap crap. Later on she had the chance to try other brands, and she developed a preference for it over all the other beverage options. Especially for Craig. So, when she saw the bottle of liquid amber over the rack behind the bar she immediately dismissed the idea of asking for some regular gin and hope for the best. They all had a second round, Elia insisted on it after observing the effects of the first cocktail on Mary. She was a light weight, and Elia wasn't going home without having some fun at her expense. But before that second round she remembered her promise to Mister Gaunt of a picture for his advertising wall, she requested The Royale's photographer, and one simple picture became a bunch of them. Mary insisted she should take two of herself, one of the front, and one of the back, where her hairdo could be appreciated. They also took a group picture, one of Watson with Sherlock, Mary with Elia, the soon to be married couple and finally the 221 neighbors. It was fun.

Back in her time she was presumed death in the same attack that ended her parents' lives. Since then there was no record of her existence outside the Brotherhood, and they referred to their assets with codes. She couldn't remember the last time she took a picture with someone. Or the last time she heard someone say her last name, the _real_ one. When she attended her first character briefing for the mission she proposed the committee to keep her real name for this one. Bedelia was an old-fashioned name, so they accepted her proposal. In a day to day basis, her full name was like a middle name, no one ever used it. Not even her parents, except for when they were extremely mad or disappointed at her. She thought she'd get to hear it more often in the nineteenth century, where it fitted, but she was wrong. Most people used the formal -and fake- address _Miss O'Donoghue_ , and the closest to her, like Mrs. Hudson, Mary and John, favored the short form _Elia_.

 _Elia._

… _Elia._

"Elia!" – Mary's voice pulled her out of her musings- "I was asking you… Has Sherlock deduced you yet?"

"Deduced me?"

"Yes, he does this thing where he looks at you and he can tell all your secrets."

"He did that to you?"

"Yes."

"And…?"

"I threw my cup of wine on his face"- Mary laughed covering her mouth like a silly drunk while her fiancé controlled his own smile on behalf of his best friend.

The detective didn't seem that amused by their conversation, or interested, for that matter. He was sitting across her, very much like he did in their way to The Royale. Looking outside the window, chewing on his pipe. Elia didn't think he was a true smoker, like in an addict way. It was more like a habit, something he restored to do automatically when he was thinking. Of course she wasn't denying his use and abuse of many substances, but she was willing to bet it had to do with boredom more than real addiction. Anyway, going back to his abilities to deduce people… Yes, she knew about that, everyone who knew about Sherlock Holmes, knew about it. But he hadn't used his magic on her yet, and she had two theories as to why, so she threw the bait and hoped that he'd bite.

"Maybe Mister Holmes is still collecting useful information for my profiling. Or maybe he can't figure this one out…"

And of course he bit, being the cocky bastard he was.

"I figured you're not a ballet dancer."

It took her a second to catch his meaning, but once she did it was clear as the day. If he figured she's not a ballet dancer it's because at some point he thought she might be, but somehow, later on, he disproved the possibility. Her mind went immediately back to that morning, when she was in his flat with lunch on a tray. He made her tip-toe around the place until he decided where he wanted it. She thought he was being his insufferable self, as per usual, but he was steering her like a mice in a maze the whole time.

 _Smart motherfucker._

The first stop of the carriage was Baker Street. The detective and the assassin said their goodbyes to the engaged couple. She took the six steps up to 221's front door first, put the key in the lock and turned it twice. He followed her slowly, leaving a few feet between them.

"Good night, Mister Holmes" –she said as he closed the door behind him.

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 **Sherlock POV**

Her voice was secure and steady as she parted to her flat, but it was a front. She didn't look at him when she said goodnight. It was an automatic action on her part, but she was ignoring him.

 _Avoidance._

Her arms were in front of her body as she walked down the corridor. In the carriage she kept her hands secured onto her lap, fingers intertwined. Fidgeting.

 _Defensive._

He stood in the hall surrounded by a cloud of details that didn't make any sense. He looked around. He should have noticed before the absence of Mrs. Hudson, not because the place was neglected, on the contrary, it was cleaner. The landlady worked hard to keep the place in shape, but her age was starting to show in the details, like the dust setting for far too long on the upper side of the frames that adorned the hall, or the smudges she left behind with the mop when cleaning the marble floors. Now the place was impeccable, except for the remnants of cobwebs in the doorway. Removed with a broom, but not cleaned properly like the rest of the premises.

 _Afraid of spiders._

He went back to the memories of the morning. The way she tiptoed no problem with the tray on her hands. He didn't interact with her over the past weeks, but he had observed. Her stance was marvelous, and she was fit. It wouldn't be strange for a woman of her economic and social position to have been instructed in the art of ballet form an early age.

 _But she wasn't._

All the things he deducted about her were standard. Nothing interesting. Nothing to discover. She was average. And yet he found himself testing her that morning. Why? Because whenever he looked at her he couldn't keep his mind from quoting Shakespeare: _by the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes._ He wasn't bored enough for his mind to play tricks on him, professor Moriarty was a wonderful distraction and a full time job. No, he was missing something… His unconscious was ahead of his conscious on the processing of data in this particular race.

That morning she was wearing a light summer dress. He'd seen her use it around the place in the warm days. It was too revealing to wear outside. Victorian society couldn't handle shoulders and calves, and despite clearly being a feminist Miss O'Donoghue knew the limits. His flat was a particular kind of messy at the moment with so much work –not that it was better when he was bored…-. Any person walking inside would have stepped onto something at some point no matter their efforts not to. It was _that_ kind of mess… The floor was too crowded, many things to avoid and too little space to maneuver. But Miss O'Donoghue didn't. She conducted herself around with grace, avoiding every little thing without a second thought. A quick look around from outside the door when he invited her to come in was enough for her.

 _Observant. Too observant. Eidetic memory?_

Her balance was that of a ballet dancer. But he skipped a bit when he saw her bare feet up close. Pretty. Too pretty. There was no trace of the usual damage in the feet of a ballet dancer. No corns, no blisters, no ulcers, no thick nails or layers of dead skin… She had broken the right foot toes at some point, but they'd healed nicely.

 _Not a ballet dancer._

The way she balanced the tray was also uncanny. The lemonade didn't sway inside the jar while she walked on her toes. Not even when he purposely dropped the glass and she had to readjust her left hand under the tray to catch it midair.

 _Quick reflexes. Too quick._

He caressed the palm of his right hand with his thumb unconsciously, lost in a haze. There were no corns in her toes, but there was a callus in her left hand. He felt the thickened skin under her fingers when they were dancing. It made contrast with her otherwise soft and manicured hands. Another little detail that he couldn't place, especially considering she was right handed _and_ the peculiar place of the imperfection.

So, what was so interesting about a rich feminist woman with a great sense of balance? Nothing. And yet there he was. Racking his brain. It _had_ to be something. His brain didn't obsess over _nothing_. Something. Something she was managing to keep from him. The thought filled him with dread but also sudden excitement. The thrill of the unknown. She was a good actress, he saw her switch between emotions like it was nothing that night, and yet for the life of him he didn't know what caused those comings and goings. He had the pieces, but he couldn't figure out the whole puzzle. His brain wasn't working fast enough. The detective closed his eyes and pinched his nose in frustration.

He exhaled slowly and headed up the stairs to change his clothes. He needed to get the blood flowing and a good night's sleep, and a few punches in the fighting pit were the perfect antidote.

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 **So, what did y'all think? Any theories that may explain Elia's behavior at The Royale? Let us know in the reviews!**


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